


Doubly Blessed

by saisei



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Ignis gets deaged a decade. He's so fucked.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> > It was long ago and it was far away  
> (it never felt so good, it never felt so right)  
> And it was so much better that it is today  
> (and we were glowing like a metal on the edge of a knife)  
> -Meatloaf

Ignis went to bed at half-past eleven, after reviewing his homework with his uncle. His schoolbag was packed; his uniform pressed and hung on the hooks behind the door.

He woke to heat and sun and someone yelling practically in his face:

"Shit, Gladio, come look at Iggy, he's _adorable_."

The next ten minutes were a terrified, adrenaline-fueled blur. Ignis saw as soon as he opened his eyes that he was in a tent, and his kidnapper was a thin blond man. He was sure he could take him in a fair fight, but that didn't matter. Ignis never fought fair.

He grabbed daggers out of the armiger and threw himself backwards, slicing an escape route through the canvas. He dove out and hit the ground running. Everything was wrong – the camp was on a flat-topped stone platform surrounded by dry scrubland, with a cliff rising up to the west and a road winding in the distance to the south.

Nothing made sense, nothing.

 _Gladio_ , he thought. He knew Gladio. Gladio meant Clarus meant the King. And this tent was surely beyond the wall... Noct had been hurt, Tenebrae attacked, the situation with Niflheim was fraught and not likely to improve. Gladio meant Clarus meant the Marshall, and Ignis seized that thought as he slid down from the campsite and ran as fast as he could for the boulders that lay between here and the cliff.

Perhaps Noct needed more than an advisor, perhaps he needed his own Crownsguard to protect him. Gladio, of course, but the Marshall might have decided to test Ignis. Examine his resourcefulness in the field. See if he was worthy.

 _Of course he was_.

He wasn't wearing his own clothes – they were baggy and the trousers threatened to trip him up. He had to assume that this was a mindgame, meant to break him psychologically. Someone wanted him to fixate on what had happened: how he'd been spirited out of the city, who'd stripped him naked, what stranger's hands had dressed him.

Safety first, he told himself. Then worry.

For now, he hitched the trouser legs up as high as he could, and tried not to stumble in the loose boots.

He was halfway to the first boulder when something silver flashed past his head. In a blink, a man stood in front of him, holding a sword. He looked so familiar that Ignis flinched back, trying to distance himself even before a dreadfully familiar voice said, "I'm Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis."

Ignis shook his spinning head. The man shrugged and tossed the sword into the armiger without breaking his gaze.

"You're Ignis Scientia, sort of." The man gave a very Noct-like grimace, even though Noct was two years younger than Ignis was, so this couldn't possibly be Noct. He reached into the armiger and pulled out a battered notebook, which he tossed over. Ignis let it fall, and Noct (Noct?) winced. "Yesterday you were twenty-three years old. We're traveling to Altissia to meet up with Luna. That's your record of our trip – how much money we spend, how many vegetables I turned my nose up at, crap like that. I've never read it. Ignis – you, I guess," he screwed up his face like the idea pained him, "would hate to see it in the dirt."

Ignis' uncle was a voracious reader of mysteries, and Ignis had read his fair share in the eight years since he'd been taken in. He distinctly recalled one where the pages of a book had been brushed with poison, which the unknowing reader had absorbed while reading. So the notebook might be a trap. But on the other hand, they were out here in the middle of nowhere, and Noct had a sword. If he wanted Ignis dead, why would he choose the tedium of having Ignis read himself to death?

Plus, the handwriting on the cover was definitely his, even though Ignis had no recollection of this notebook at all. He ducked quickly to pick it up, and started flipping through its pages while keeping one eye on Noct, who tried to smother a yawn in his palm when he thought Ignis wasn't looking. 

He'd hoped to find an answer or an explanation for how he'd woken up here, and was momentarily heartened to see that the notebook was organized in exactly the way he would have done (that is, mostly based on his uncle's housekeeping diary). The front of the book was devoted to daily entries, and the back split into sections for inventory, recipes, history and lore, magic, flora and fauna, and daemons. He avoided that last part entirely, save for noting how many pages were already filled – far too many.

The version of himself who'd written these notes had an odd fixation with cooking. Ignis wondered if that had been one of his official duties when he was older, and tried not to wrinkle his nose. He'd much rather be Noct's bodyguard than his cook. He'd tried making Tenebraean tarts for Noct twice, and both times had been _dreadful_ failures.

He flipped to the last daily entry, noting the date with horror and a flutter of panic that he tried to crush down. He'd gone to bed in 747, so therefore waking up in 757 was an impossibility, but yet his own meticulous handwriting told him that was so. In the future, nothing of import had happened yesterday: he'd woken and prepared breakfast (a recipe was referred to), they'd spent the morning driving and ate sandwiches for lunch (another recipe), and the afternoon had involved hunting some creatures for bounty. They'd made camp at the _haven_ , ate a new recipe for dinner, and went to bed at nine.

He couldn't help feeling a bit scornful as he looked at Noct now. "It says here you're hunters."

Noct shrugged. "We need money."

That made no sense. Noct had said he was the king... and the import of that hit home hard enough that Ignis' knees nearly gave out and his breathing quickened. His father Regis was dead, then, and Noct had... fled Insomnia? Gone into hiding? There'd been an invasion, possibly, and he turned to the first page of the diary with shaking hands, determined to find out.

"Hey," Noct said, bending over with hands on his knees so he could look up into Ignis' face and meet his eyes. "Come back to the haven with me, we'll have breakfast and tell you the whole story. I really doubt Specs went into detail in his notes because, you know." He tapped his temple. "He keeps everything up here."

Which was a new source of horror. Ignis didn't have that knowledge; he wasn't useful to this Noct in any way. He felt tears sting his eyes, and there was a lump in his throat, and he stared at the sheer wall of the cliff – no escape there – and then at the far-distant road (but where would he go, if his home was gone?).

"Prompto's making eggs," Noct said, like that was something to look forward to, and then his eyes fell closed for a moment like he was trying to keep away the bad thoughts, too. He took a breath, and then gave Ignis a wry smile. "Just like you taught him."

*

"So here's the plan," Noct said. Ignis had the cynical suspicion that they'd decided Noct should be the spokesperson, as he had Ignis' trust, more-or-less. That made Ignis feel like a feral cat, but he nodded anyway, to give the semblance of cooperation. "We're assuming this is a status effect – a temporary magical change," he added as an aside to Ignis "– and it'll wear off in a few hours. We'll also retrace our steps yesterday and see if anything stands out as creepy and weird. In the meantime, Gladio's going to be in charge of training you up, cause old-you would hate to get out of shape, and Prompto and I'll give you lessons and stuff. Just like school."

"School," Ignis repeated, goaded into sarcasm before he remembered that he was addressing the king.

Noct grinned. "You need to learn to drive. Prompto's distracted, Gladio's giant thighs get in the way, and I get tired."

So apparently his older self had been the chauffeur, as well. "Should I learn to cook as well?" he asked, irritated.

"There's other priorities," Gladio said. His voice was flat with just how funny he didn't find the situation. Prompto bit his lip and looked away, and Noct leveled an irate glare at Gladio, like he'd broken some unspoken agreement. Gladio had always been bigger than Ignis, but now he was gigantic, with bulging muscles and the full Amicitia tattoo inked around his bare torso. He had one long scar down the side of his face, not much left in him of the teenager with his regulation haircut and immaculate uniform, aside from impatience and bad temper. Ignis was suddenly and acutely reminded of how young he was, and how very far from home.

*

The week ended, and then the month, and Ignis still didn't return to Insomnia – to his own home and bed, to his uncle, to his wounded, bratty prince. He was learning so much the latest terror to dog his idle thoughts was that he'd forget them; that this world would stop feeling like a nightmare and simply replace the world he knew was real.

Noct wrote to Lady Lunafreya for advice, and taught Ignis how to use the king's magic to use spells and potions. Gladio pushed Ignis well past his limits, teaching advanced weapons techniques and battle tactics, and making him memorize the weaknesses of enemies and creatures (Ignis cheated by looking things up in the notebook that he'd surreptitiously pocketed).

The first hunt they went on, Noct said Ignis should stay in the car, so of course he had to insist on going along.

Ignis had never seen death like that before. He'd been trained in using various weapons since elementary school, of course, as he needed to be able to help Noct, but targets and dummies didn't bleed. He kept thinking he was going to throw up: his clothes were sodden with blood, and the garulas made piteous noises as they were assaulted. Midway through the fight he got too tired to do anything but defend himself, and even that he did poorly. He got tossed and stomped, and the pain was unimaginable until Prompto darted up and banished his injuries with curatives, grabbing Ignis by the hand and hauling him – not to safety – but back into the fray.

Ignis couldn't stop shaking when the fight was over. Gladio turned to him and said, "Iggy," and then his face went hard as he remembered. He butchered the garula for meat all by himself, even after Prompto awkwardly offered his assistance.

"You did good," Noct said, handing Ignis an energy drink. He sounded genuinely pleased. "Older you barfed for an hour after our first hunt. He was..." Noct's voice trailed off, as if the funny memory was becoming sad now that he recalled it. "Embarrassed," he finally said, with a jerky shrug.

"We knew fuck-all," Prompto added, with either blithe ignorance of the conversation's undertones or willful intent to distract. He was, Ignis had discovered, good at that. "Except for Gladio, of course." He put his arm around Ignis' shoulders, possibly intending the gesture to be comforting, but then recoiled. "Whoa – we're pretty gross, aren't we?"

"Creek's that way," Gladio said, with a jerk of his thumb and a tenseness in the clench of his jaw that suggested he wanted someone to object, so he could fight.

As if anyone was going to argue with the opportunity to get clean. The water was shallow but sunwarmed, and they all stripped down to their underwear to scrub clean. Ignis even had blood in his hair, and smeared on his face. The clothes he was wearing were borrowed from Noct and Prompto, as they fit him better than his older self's, so he tried very hard to get them clean, even though Prompto grinned at him and said not to worry about stains.

"That's the great thing about black, right? Nothing shows!"

Gladio scooped up a double handful of water and tossed it, hitting Prompto full in the face, which started a full-out waterfight. Ignis tried to stay out of it, but the day had been so bad that the sight of Noct with his sopping hair plastered to his face was enough to send him into hysterical laughter. He couldn't make himself stop laughing; he was acutely aware of how attractive Noct, Gladio, and Prompto were, and how his body reacted to their mostly-naked bodies, and his nerves were so frayed he had no control. Once he'd realized he liked boys, he'd been constantly alert to the dangers of betraying himself during training or in the locker room – those were common scenarios in an awful lot of the porn he'd browsed surreptitiously over the weekends when his uncle was away, working. 

His older self had remained close friends with Noct, that was obvious by how grief darkened his mood as his hopes for Ignis to return to normal faded into resignation. Ignis could only assume that he'd told Noct, at some point, that he was gay, and the thought that Noct knew – and was being _kind_ – or would someday take him aside to have a little chat – was agonizing.

Day-to-day, the stress of being in close quarters with, for example, Gladio and his shirtlessness was manageable, but standing here drenched, Ignis didn't know where to look, now that he'd fallen into live-action softcore-porn land, and he couldn't stop laughing, even though his stomach hurt. He was pathetically grateful that the water was cold enough to keep him from getting visibly hard and embarrassing himself.

Finally, Gladio had Prompto pinned, and after dunking his head in victory he announced, "I could eat a whole garula myself," which shocked Ignis into silence. He hadn't realized he was _starving_.

He thought he should have felt revulsion about eating meat that came from an animal that had been alive only that morning, but instead his mouth watered embarrassingly the whole time the steaks were cooking. He ate three before he realized the others were watching him in amusement.

"Don't forget your veggies," Noct said, his expression far too neutral. "Someone was always telling me that."

 _That someone is dead_ , Ignis thought immediately, but he swallowed the words down with the last of the meat. He wasn't sure, of course; perhaps the older version of him had been sent to the past, and was taking good care of Noct and his uncle. But he increasingly felt that there was only one of him, who'd simply been rewound – returned to an earlier age, and the ten years in which he'd attended school, joined the Crownsguard, and embarked on the trip to Altissia were simply gone.

Prompto had shown him pictures, in the beginning, as some kind of proof that his older self really had known and liked all of them. He'd stopped, gradually. Looking at those pictures just upset everyone, and the obvious flaw in Prompto's scheme was that any friendship they had had taken those missing ten years to develop.

But Ignis had no idea how to fix whatever his older self had done wrong. He was starting to hate him: he made a conveniently inaccessible receptacle for his anger and frustration. Ignis was stuck here, and his only connection to his life was Noct (and Gladio, he supposed, though he still found it hard to believe that the boy he'd known had become this man). He'd learn to fight and kill for Noct; right now he piled his plate with more beans and carrots and another potato. For Noct.


	2. Chapter 2

"Cor can swing by and meet us," Gladio said one night, waggling his phone. It glinted in the firelight, a now-familiarly odd juxtaposition of high and low tech. "When we go after that royal arm we got a tip about. He wants to hear more about whatever the fuck happened with Ravus and Ardyn, when we got the car back." He grimaced.

"Cool," Prompto said. Noct didn't say anything, which should have tipped Ignis off. But he was trying to piece together what his older self had been doing before they switched places – or he got himself erased – and how the Regalia was lost and regained was a deep mystery. Noct's recounting had been skeletal, Prompto followed his lead, and something had scared or humiliated Gladio so badly there that Ignis felt that asking outright would be a mistake. A breech of the very fragile tolerance he'd attained.

But they'd have to tell Cor, and Ignis would be right there, absorbing every word. He tried not to let his inner elation show.

The drive to the ancient tomb was long and it started raining after an hour; Noct made Ignis pull over so he could drive, citing dangerous road conditions. Ignis tried not to sulk in the back seat, which would be childish, but he found the atmosphere stifling. Prompto kept trying to start conversations that never took off, and Gladio squinted at the pages of his book in the poor light as if even ruining his eyes was preferable to acknowledging Ignis' presence. 

Sheets of rain were still blowing down when they arrived, but it was a relief to run with the others through the boulder-strewn woods up to an ancient stone tomb, sunk in the ground and surrounded by broken and weathered pillars. Ignis supposed that in ancient times there'd been a roof.

Noct opened the tomb with a key, and inside there were no monsters or daemons, only a stone sarcophagus. Noct crossed to it and held a hand over it with an expression of bored resignation. Magic pooled in the air, taking the form of ringing crystals, and a spectral form rose up from the shield on the queen's effigy. Ignis expected Noct to take the shield in hand when it came to him, but instead it surged forward to stab into his chest.

Only Gladio's hand grabbing his arm kept Ignis from rushing forward. He saw Noct double over with the impact, but he straightened nearly immediately, the royal arms circling around him like a halo of destructive force. There was an otherworldly abstraction in Noct's red-tinged eyes, as if he was seeing or hearing something no one else was privy to.

Perhaps his ancestors were speaking to him, Ignis theorized. Imparting wisdom, he hoped.

Prompto, who'd been hovering in the doorway – keeping a lookout – announced that the rain had let up, and they all climbed back up the steps to the plaza in front of the tomb. Noct pulled his new shield out of the armiger and they all had a look at it. Ignis could hardly bear how mundane the experience was: like a child showing off a new pencil case or commemorative keychain.

Ignis had no idea how it was possible that a shield which was still in the tomb had copied itself and was now also in Noct's hands.

Gladio tried to explain, saying that the royal arms were like the Astrals: their true existence was on another plane, but they could manifest here if summoned by the king. King Regis, he said, had possessed the same shield in his armiger.

"Like photos," Prompto volunteered, before Ignis could continue with his line of questioning. "Anyone with a copy of the file can make a print."

Gladio snorted and said that sounded dumb, but also that it worked for him as a metaphor. 

Ignis took out his notebook and diligently wrote down their location, the date and time, and then asked Noct for the name of the royal arm and whose it had been. After a moment, he turned to a new page in the back and wrote out all his questions as they made their way back to the car.

He wanted to know if there could only be one manifestation of each royal arm at a time – for example, whether King Aedel, who abdicated, and King Varag after him could have each possessed the same sword, until Aedel's mysterious death. Or if Aedel and Varag could have possessed different sets of royal arms, or perhaps shared the armiger... though he thought not. Gathering the royal arms was a trial, and the surely gods wouldn't allow cheating.

Which led him to consider whether all kings were required to make this journey around the kingdom to collect the royal arms, or if it was only necessary in wartime. Could one be a true Lucian king without the arms?

Recalling how Noct had seemed to be in communion back in the tomb, he asked him if he'd noticed whether the royal arms were haunted or possessed in any way by the spirits of Noct's ancestors.

Noct gave him a weird look when he asked. "I hadn't worried about that until now, thanks." He cut himself off before adding _Specs_ – he was getting good at not slipping up, by now. Ignis missed that tie to their nursery days, but he understood that for this Noct, the nickname didn't belong to him.

Noct didn't seem to feel the same keen interest that Ignis did at all. Perhaps the magic made sense to him on an intuitive level but he struggled to explain it to non-magical mortals, or maybe he perceived the inquiries as irrelevant and his weapons as no more than tools. Ignis' Noctis hadn't begun magical studies yet; King Regis had said he'd have plenty of time even if he started in high school. (Time to recover, everyone had understood: to heal, to learn how to walk, to recover from the trauma of being attacked and nearly dying.)

Perhaps, Ignis started to wonder, King Regis hadn't had time to devote to _this_ Noct, in the end. That thought made him feel oddly adrift. What if no one now living fully knew how to use the Lucian king's magic?

He stumbled through another few questions, but with far less enthusiasm, anticipating an utter lack of answers.

"Ask Cor," Gladio finally suggested, nodding down towards the road where a truck was pulling up behind their car. "He probably knows more than anyone."

Ignis recognized the man who alighted from the car as the Marshall immediately, even though he was older, and he was greeted with a nod as Cor approached.

"Ignis."

That sent a thrill through him: that he was his own person, not an inadequate fragment of himself, and was recognized as such.

But as he spoke with Noct, Prompto, and Gladio during the relocation to the haven to set up camp for the night, Ignis realized that there was a purpose to this visit that had less to do with collecting intel on the Imperials and more to do with _him_.

Getting rid of him, to be precise.

When he realized, he froze, struck speechless, his mind stuck on Gladio's words, running in a loop through his head: _I know someone who can put him up in Lestallum... he can work with Iris._

Prompto was the only one to notice Ignis' distress, and his face pinched into an expression of guilty misery. So he'd known, too.

"I won't be left behind," Ignis told Noct, loud enough to cut through their murmured conversation. "I swore an oath to your father, and I will not abandon my duty. I don't especially care if that duty would prefer to abandon _me_ or not."

Cor took a long swallow from the beer Gladio had given him, and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "I'd be a hypocrite to say a teenager has no place on the battlefield," he said slowly, giving Noct a shrug of apology. "And part of the reason I'm here is to pass on word that the city's not safe. Too many Imperials using their free time to make life difficult – high time we got all out people out, in my opinion. Plus, I'm not that fond of the idea of my King running around Lucis without his advisor."

The tightness around Ignis' chest that had eased as Cor spoke choked him anew as he saw Noct open his mouth to argue, then glance at Ignis and flinch with guilt, again.

Ignis knew what he'd wanted to say, though. _He's not my advisor._

He was acutely aware of his glaring deficiencies: a decade of experience, gone. Five years of formal schooling, as well as supplemental study with tutors. His work in the Crownsguard and as Noct's representative in the Council. But in Ignis' opinion, if he forced himself to be scrupulously objective and unsentimental, a vast amount of that knowledge was the politics of a dead city. What he needed to know _now_ was far more limited: how to keep Noct alive, and how to confront the gods themselves and discern their machinations. At thirteen, he'd already put away his books of legends and myth, but those stories had been the foundation of his and Noct's early educations – and it seemed they were, after all, more fact than metaphor in reality.

He was still more than capable of critical thinking, and was probably less hampered than his older self by the notion that there were civilized, diplomatic solutions to problems. Not everything could be talked out; not every problem had a good solution. He'd seen the kind of clothes that his older self had packed to head out into the world beyond the wall: sturdy and flexible enough to fight in, but with a distinct weakness for what Ignis could only assume had been the cutting edge of Insomnian fashion. If Niflheim had never attacked, if there had been no war, _that_ Ignis would doubtless have been content to spend his days immersed in politics and bureaucracy, indulging in the little luxuries appropriate to his station. Just like his uncle had, for many decades.

Ignis might not be the advisor Noct was familiar with, but he could see quite clearly the shape of the advisor Noct needed to survive and succeed. A ruthless combination of bodyguard, historical scholar, and battlefield strategist.

He needed Cor or Gladio to teach him the last: Gladio so far had been both brutal and reluctant, routinely pushing Ignis to exceed his limits, but also projecting the sense of a caged predator pacing – trapped, frustrated, and full of murderous rage at his predicament. Cor might be a better teacher, Ignis thought, especially if he was explicitly acknowledging the age he'd fought for the King. But he didn't know how long he'd be with them, and Ignis was also... curious and leery of what Cor considered his duty, currently.

He had no good idea why Cor wasn't accompanying Noct in the first place. There was room for a fifth person in the Regalia. Cor had experience. Practically _anyone_ else had more experience than Noct and his Crownsguard, including older Ignis, who'd still been just turned twenty-three when he'd disappeared. If not Cor, then Cid – they'd both served King Regis, and knew about life outside the wall.

There had to be a reason, and he had to know what it was. He told himself that indulging his curiosity wasn't rude. His position as advisor demanded it, in fact.

Ignis stood – he wanted to run, but he was being an adult, and the bigger man in this insulting discussion – and gave Cor a deferential nod. "Would you mind if we walked and talked?" He gestured toward the other side of the haven, where the cook station had been set up. He smiled, though he suspected his fury still showed, and took out his notebooks. "I have some questions. And a report of our recent activities."

Cor sighed like the world weighed heavily on him and brought his beer as they walked out of earshot. Behind them, Noct, Gladio, and Prompto fell into silence around the fire.

*

Cor stuck around for two weeks before returning to duties which were, he'd informed Ignis in a tone that did not invite further questioning, the dying orders of King Regis. While he was with them, Ignis studied and trained as he never had before, even though Cor knew less than he'd hoped about lore and the gods, and realized to his dull disgust that his dick didn't care how old someone was as long as they were hot. He jerked off behind a lot of rocks imagining Cor – or Gladio, Prompto, Noct, or all four of them together – showing him how to touch himself.

Thankfully, Cor didn't seem to realize Ignis' weakness. He helped him obtain a map, and wrote in all he remembered about the locations of the royal arms, other sites of interest, and places where he had contacts they should talk to. They worked to plan a route which theoretically approximated King Regis' journey nearly three decades previous, although Cor said it would be far too dangerous to attempt retrieving the royal arms in Tenebrae and Niflheim.

"At present," he added, reading Ignis' expression far too easily. "Don't rush into dangerous situations."

Ignis agreed, eager to be out of the spotlight of Cor's concern. It tended to get him (very awkwardly) hard.

Gladio argued with Cor when he announced he wasn't taking Ignis. He stopped short of saying that they needed someone like Cor more than a child – someone with experience and knowledge, who wasn't a burden – but the subtext was obvious.

After Cor left, Ignis laid claim to the large stash of canned coffee in the car. It turned out to be very good at replacing sleep, even though he hated the taste, and he now knew that he had to redouble his efforts to master his older self's job. Managing their finances was easy, aside from needing an adult to purchase potions and rent hotel rooms. He'd mastered driving – even at night – in less than two weeks. Sticking to the itinerary was harder, as they also needed to earn money and gather intel. He didn't do too badly, he thought, but he needed to maintain the appearance of effortlessness.

He also kept up with his own regimen of exercise and weapons training, and bought a new notebook just for his questions and research. He vowed that someday he'd know enough of the truth to make wise decisions.

"That'll stunt your growth," Prompto told him one morning when they returned from a run and Ignis popped open his first can of the day, while Prompto got started on eggs and toast for breakfast.

Ignis raised an eyebrow skeptically. "These belonged to the other me, and he was tall." Prompto had shown him some photos, in the beginning, trying to jog memories that Ignis didn't have.

"Yeah, but I have no idea when he picked up the habit." Ignis liked that Prompto had really only known older Ignis for a few years, instead of from childhood. It meant that he wasn't always being compared to the way he'd been before, and found lacking. "Look, Iggy – " only Noct had ever given Ignis a nickname before, and he wasn't sure why this one made his heart twist, but it did "– I'm sorry. We all are. I know... it was a huge leap of faith for you to trust us in the first place, and then..." His voice trailed off, and he flipped the bread in nervous habit. "I can totally see how us wanting you to move to Lestallum must have felt like being sent into exile or something. Like we just wanted you gone. But we want you _safe_ above all, and Noct's already kicking himself hard for failing at that. And Gladio... Jared and Iris are his family, and they know you." Ignis gave him a flat stare. "Kind of." Prompto twirled the spatula uneasily. "Or maybe not, I don't know."

"A King doesn't have a responsibility to keep his retainers safe. He keeps moving forward, and doesn't look back." He took a pointed sip of bitter black coffee. "When you discover how to reverse the spell that's made me younger, none of you will hesitate to turn me back, which is as it should be. You needn't have affection for me, and I oughtn't to expect such. All I ask is that I am allowed to do my job, until such time as I can do it better."

Prompto sighed, but then shook his head. "It's too nice a morning to fight. But of course we like you, that's why we care what happens to you."

Ignis shrugged. "Gladio hates me," he reminded Prompto.

Prompto made a face, but true to his word didn't argue.

*

What came next was, to quote Noct, a shitshow. Ignis should probably have reprimanded him for swearing, but he didn't want Noct to focus on the issue of his age instead of proper royal decorum. More than that, _shitshow_ was an understatement.

Everything went bad so quickly. They went to Ravatogh, and Ignis clearly remembered saying, "Out of the frying pan – " to which Prompto responded cheerily, "and into the volcano." But that was just... foreshadowing, perhaps. Or irony. Because finding that royal arm was hardly difficult, even with a few fights along the way, but after that they'd headed north to Lestallum, flush with success and first-degree burns, only to find that Jared had been tortured and murdered, while Iris had gone into hiding with Talcott.

Ignis didn't know what to say to Gladio. He wasn't forthcoming about his feelings. He hugged Iris when she cried and was painfully kind to Talcott, but mostly was furious with himself, which meant snapping at everyone to spread the futile guilt around. Noct had settled on making a promise of vengeance, which was easier than getting Gladio to talk or realize that he hadn't been at fault. (If anyone was to blame, in Ignis' opinion, Cor was; why had he left Gladio's sister and family retainer so unprotected? Surely he knew how upset Gladio was – all of them were – by Ignis-the-older's loss, on top of the fall of Insomnia. Gladio didn't need another death. None of them did.) 

Ignis threw his best efforts into planning for the assault on Fort Vaullerey, but the results weren't the success he'd hoped for. They crippled the Imperial forces in the area, but the man who'd murdered Jared escaped. In camp that night Ignis curled up with his notebook and filled pages trying to make sense of what he'd learned about Niflheim's military and politics. Ulldor served Ravus, who'd ambushed Noct when he found the Regalia. Ardyn had stopped Ravus then, so maybe unlike him he wanted the marriage to Lunafreya to take place; Ulldor hated Ardyn and worried he was under suspicion. No one spoke as if the Emperor retained any political power, and that was... possibly the worst scenario, because it implied factions vying for power and dangerous instability.

According to Cor, the Emperor and Ardyn had been in Insomnia when it fell, but Ignis knew Ardyn must have orchestrated the invasion. Had fueled hostilities between Lucis and Niflheim over decades, Ignis suspected. Operating in the shadow cast by the puppet Emperor, and using a charming, affable persona to make people underestimate him. Think of him as a friend, even. Ulldor seemed to suspect the truth.

Ignis needed to impress on Noct the absolute necessity of never trusting anyone from Niflheim. Not even people who seemed helpful. Ardyn, he thought, wanted something from Noct, to be so helpful.

He glanced across the fire, to where Noct and Prompto had shoved their camp chairs side by side and were doing something on their phones. They looked too relaxed to be gaming; Prompto was probably sharing his photos again. Ignis should get copies as well, especially if he had one of Ulldor. Gladio was sitting to the side, reading a hefty hardback that looked small in his large hands. Ignis should say something to him. Apologize for failing to achieve their primary objective.

He didn't have the words, so he just wrote, and tried to make sense of things, and when it turned nine he went to bed, telling himself he'd think of the right words tomorrow.

Or the day after.

Or never, he castigated himself, two weeks later, when they arrived in Cape Caem only for Gladio to turn around and hitch a ride with a hunter passing through, saying he had personal stuff to do.

Noct seemed to take this in stride, but ignored Prompto's tentative _shouldn't we wait for Gladio?_ when Cid told them to go find some mythril to repair the boat. Which was how they ended up working with Ardyn and his mercenaries. Ardyn made the hair on Ignis' arms stand on end, and he unfortunately knew who Ignis Scientia was.

"What a _pity_ ," he said, leaning down over Ignis and tipping his chin up with one hand, turning his head from side to side effortlessly while Ignis forced down the urge to stab him. "What a crying shame. Whatever did you do to yourself? Was it something you ate, perhaps?" His fingers dug in suddenly at the hinges of Ignis' jaw. "And I'd thought you were the clever one."

He let go abruptly, turning on his heel and going off to turn his vile fascination on Prompto. He was trying to rile Noct up, Ignis realized, seeing the way Noct's arms were tightly crossed and his eyes narrowed. Without Gladio around to loom right back at Ardyn, they must all look like children to him, and he wanted to make them... throw tantrums, become so overwhelmed by emotion that they missed obvious things. Like the fact that Ardyn was loaning Noct – out of the goodness of his heart – the very same jumped-up mercenaries Ulldor claimed were spying on him.

Ignis found this doubly annoying because he _liked_ Aranea. She pitied him, obviously, but her sympathy took the place of a hearty slap between his shoulder blades and an offer to teach him some aerial maneuvers at camp. "Get people to look up to you," she said with a sly smirk, "in the half-second before you run a spear through their skulls."

When they were inside the Vesperpool temple, Aranea made a point of professing her growing disgust with the Empire, Magitek, and Ardyn. Ignis knew this couldn't be anything but an attempt to draw them out and gain their trust, and he was pleased that Noct had apparently paid attention to his warnings and kept his own remarks noncommittal. When they were back in camp, he made himself stay awake long enough to write everything down, although he was distracted by watching Biggs and Wedge.

Well. Not _just_ them, of course. Aranea had brought an airship's worth of mercenaries, including new recruits who were doing training exercises and traders who'd set up shop. Without Gladio there to keep an eye on the activity around them, Ignis felt doubly responsible for ensuring Noct's safety in this nest of Niflheimers. 

But his eyes kept returning to Biggs and Wedge, who touched each other a lot as they cooked breakfast and bickered, moving with an enviable synchronicity around the cook station as they kept up a quiet conversation. Ignis was sure he was misinterpreting what he was seeing; surely they weren't being so open about... well, it was probably just friendship. Very close friendship. Big gruff mercenaries didn't have feelings for each other – did they?

"No one told you staring was rude?" Aranea said, dropping down on the log opposite Ignis' and blocking his view. She was smirking at him, but she used that same expression when she was amused, infuriated, or disgusted.

Ignis' cheeks burned, but he pretended not to notice. "My apologies."

Aranea pointed at his notebook with a jerk of her chin. "You writing some friend fiction there? Taking notes?"

"Simply keeping a record of the types of beasts and daemons I've encountered," Ignis said, thoroughly relieved that he didn't need to lie, and turned the book around, offering it to her with what he hoped looked like diffidence.

She called his bluff, taking it and skimming over the page he was writing, then looking at the cover pensively before handing it back. He tried not to clutch it to his chest. "So you really are a kid now, huh." She sounded sympathetic, briefly, but then added, "Sucks for you, I guess. I'm surprised they'd keep you around, considering, you know." She waved a hand around the grove. "Not the safest place."

"Ignore her," Biggs said. Ignis hadn't even noticed him approaching, but suddenly he was between Aranea and Ignis, handing each of them a mug of steaming coffee and then planting his hands on his hips. "She's bratty before coffee." Aranea flipped him a rude gesture with her free hand, but didn't seem to take offense. "And he's one of us, if Wedge's instincts hold true."

Aranea leaned back, glancing at Wedge and then giving Ignis a narrow-eyed judgmental stare. "Huh." Ignis felt he ought to say something, but denial would be cowardice, even if admitting the truth was beyond him at present. He tried to will away his blush, but his face was feverishly hot. "That must suck... kind of a lot."

"I think they all know," Ignis blurted out in a raw whisper. That was the worst thing. He didn't want anyone to know his business, or to treat him with the fond, condescending indulgence they'd have for a precocious child. "I – "

"Here," Biggs said, sitting down next to Ignis. He fished a flask out of an inside pocket and added a dash of whatever alcohol was inside to Ignis' coffee. "Drink that. Good for the nerves."

"'Cause it kills them," Aranea said, but she was smirking again, so it was probably okay.

Ignis took a cautious sip, and then another. He'd been allowed glasses of wine with dinner occasionally, but this was like drinking liquid relaxation. Before he knew it, over half his coffee was gone, and he was sagging as every muscle from his shoulders down went limp, enough that he was starting to list to the side.

"Let me tell you about how I met that man." Biggs stretched his legs out in front and stared up toward the sky, as if collecting his thoughts.

Aranea rolled her neck so it cracked and said, "Not this again," but she didn't seem to mind as Biggs ignored her and launched into his story.

Ignis barely remembered the ending, except that it was romantic and involved a sunset and kissing and an explosion. Aranea hauled him to his feet and led him over to a sleeping bag, where he curled up and went straight to sleep. The next thing he knew, Prompto was shaking him awake, which was deeply unpleasant, given how much his head hurt. But he was starving, and felt better after eating. Less like his own skin was suffocating him, at least, even if he still felt a burn of envy when he saw Biggs and Wedge together.

He couldn't imagine a future where he had a relationship like that, but knowing some people did was comforting. And Aranea had promised none of them would tell Noct or Prompto. _Not their business,_ she'd said, with a shrug, blithely ignoring that who he fancied had nothing to do with her, either.

She was kind, in her own unsympathetic way. And she did teach him some of her spear techniques. Ignis decided he liked her, despite not trusting her at all.

*

They met up with Gladio in Lestallum. He didn't tell Ignis why he'd run off from Cape Caem, but Ignis assumed he'd spent his time helping Holly, either in the power plant or outside, working on the pylons. His new scars were bad – either one could have been lethal – and in Ignis' opinion Gladio completely deserved the dressing-down Noct gave him once they were behind closed doors at the hotel.

He wanted to eavesdrop – as no one bothered to tell him anything – but Prompto insisted they go to the market.

"Our last chance to stock up in Lucis," Prompto said, as Ignis followed him down the stairs to the lobby. "Plus... it's Shield-King stuff. Nothing to do with me." _Or you_ was unsaid, but hardly needed saying.

And Prompto was _right_ , of course he was, but it stung to be reprimanded (by someone who was still mostly a stranger, taller and older than Ignis; a commoner, but Noct's Crownsguard when Ignis himself wasn't.

Ignis sank into a disgustingly self-centered sulk that lasted until they returned to Cape Caem. The night before departing for Altissia, Cid dragged him into his workshop, ostensibly to assist with upgrading the bioblaster.

"What bug crawled up your ass and died?" Cid asked, laying tools out and not even bothering to look at Ignis.

Ignis saw red, caught up in a tidal wave of impotent rage and frustration that made him want to rain down destruction like Ifrit leveling Solheim. When he had managed to stuff his temper halfway back under control, he said, sounding horridly sullen and rude to his own ears, "It's nothing."

Cid snorted, and demonstrated how he wanted Ignis to hold the lights just so, to keep the worktable as shadow-free as possible. When he was satisfied, he pulled on a pair of magnifying glasses and began removing panels and taking out bits of machinery.

"Cindy just about bit off my head when I said her puberty were getting the better of her, and I reckon you'd do the same. But the fellow you used to be was quite the gentleman. Didn't seem like the type to let his hormones get the upper hand."

If Ignis hadn't been holding the lights, he might have just walked out. His eyes were rough and dry, like he was on the verge of tears.

"He _belonged_ here," he managed to say, keeping his voice as even as he could. "They wanted him. They still do."

"They can want both of you," Cid suggested. "That's the nature of human beings. You're around a person enough, even if they're kind of an ass, and you start to like them. Even if every time you see them you think about... well. I loved my boy Mid something ferocious and there were times I'd have willingly died ten times over to bring him back. But never once would I have swapped Cindy for him." He nudged Ignis' elbow back up and then grunted when he got the right angle. "You got to stop trying so hard to keep a distance. You and them both. From what King Noctis says, this ain't the typical work of a daemon. Only other thing I know of that can do magic like that is the gods, and if they wanted this for you, got to be a reason. You've got a purpose for being here, and it's not to try and grow ten years overnight. So figure that shit out. Maybe not belonging here is the whole _point_."

Ignis blinked and tried to parse that. "What do you mean?"

Cid shrugged, turning his attention back on the wiring he'd exposed inside the intricate machinery. "I'm an old greasemonkey, you're the one who's studied magic and history. Which of us do you reckon is gonna figure it out first?"

"I used to know _more_ ," Ignis pointed out in irritation.

"Maybe what you knew was wrong," Cid shot back. "Maybe you had to be wiped clean so you could get it _right_ this time around."

Ignis' thoughts flashed to his older self's ridiculously fashionable shoes. He could _nearly_ wear them now without them falling off his feet entirely. But maybe that wasn't in the gods' plan for him, either. Which was a stupid thing to think, but it made him almost smile.


	3. Chapter 3

"What if," Ardyn said, smiling and _smiling_ and making Ignis feel very small and scared, "I took ten years off dear Prince Noctis' life next? He's not as stressed as you were, of course, but... don't you think all of this – " he gestured with his dagger at the city, at the altar where Luna had been murdered "– gets him down?"

The rain had washed the blood from his dagger and his hands, but Ignis could see Ardyn's true nature as clear as crystal. His one advantage, especially now, after Ravus had been beaten and tossed aside, was that Ardyn apparently didn't know _him_ at all. "You'll have to go through me," Ignis said. He wrenched his wrist free of the MT's grasp and snatched up the ring. He could hear his own terrified heartbeat loud enough to drown out the battle – he'd heard what happened to the Galadhian soldier who'd defended Insomnia – but he had no choice.

Ardyn sighed theatrically, feigning boredom even as his eyes filled with the first real genuine emotion Ignis'd seen from him. He made a production of rising from his crouch to his full height, just so he could stare down on Ignis. "I'm already bored with you, little man."

Ignis cleared his mind of any ego rising to the goading, made himself focus purely on his duty, and slid the ring on.

*

"Hey there, kiddo," Gladio said when Ignis woke up. He was holding his hand, thumb rubbing a soothing line down to his wrist and back. His hands were so huge Ignis felt even more like a child, and he almost said _mama?_ before the pain hit and he had to grit his teeth to ride it out. "There's medicine," Gladio added.

He lifted Ignis' head with his free hand, pressed a pill to his mouth and then a glass of water. Ignis swallowed obediently, even though he didn't know what it was. Even poison would be better than the phantom flames that still tormented him. Gladio went back to holding his hand, and Ignis concentrated on breathing deeply, waiting.

"We didn't take good enough care of you, and I'm so fucking sorry." Gladio sighed. He sounded like he was at the end of his patience, exhausted and frustrated. Perhaps angry at the gods. Ignis was, too. "I _swear_ we're going to do better. If you think you can trust us." He gave Ignis' hand a squeeze. "If you can't, it's cool. You can do whatever you want."

"Noct," Ignis managed to ask. He was hoping that Gladio's _we_ meant he'd succeeded and Noct was alive and unharmed.

"He's next door sleeping off the fight," Prompto said, which answered Ignis' next question. "Ravus said you saved his life. He said you were a hero."

That was... unbelievable. "He did not."

Gladio laughed, and a hand ruffled Ignis' hair – Prompto? "He said it like he meant you were an idiot, cause he's a dick that way, but you know. His whole life all he wanted was to protect his sister, and she was murdered. What's Ravus got now?"

The medicine might have started working, but as the edge wore off the pain, fear took hold. "Was I an idiot?" Ignis asked. He tried to raise his left hand to his face, but it was heavy and clumsy, and he shook with the effort.

"Nope," Prompto said. He caught up Ignis' hand and Ignis braced himself to protest, but Prompto just moved Ignis' hand for him. "You were totally a hero, but your face's a bit worse for wear."

"Like Gladio," Ignis said, reassured. He'd heard plenty of people talk about Gladio's scars, saying they just added to his overall attractiveness. He guessed he thought so, too; he'd certainly thought about running his fingers along them, or even kissing them. Along with the tattoo, there was something about wearing his devotion to Noct on his skin that Ignis found compelling.

He heard Gladio's breathing hitch, like he was holding back a cough or a sneeze, or tears. Ignis couldn't imagine Gladio ever crying over him, though.

"The cuts were stitched up and we decided to use curatives. You're got some scars," Prompto said; no bluster, just the bravery of plain honesty. "Healed up, though." He brushed his fingers over Ignis' face. "Here, and here, and here." He rubbed at the middle finger; there was a sickening feeling to the scar there, like electricity humming under his skin where the ring had been. "The burns were magical, though, and the doctor has no idea how to treat them. Your eyes got burned," he added. "So you're bandaged up. We're hoping..." He took a breath. "We're hoping."

Ignis had been ready to sacrifice his life to save Noct. The loss of his sight would be comparatively so much less, but the idea filled him with dread. Noct hardly needed an advisor who'd be useless on the battlefield, or unable to do any kind or research or reconnaissance. What if he couldn't see well enough to drive?

Noct needed the older Ignis back now more than ever, but on the heels of that thought was the sure knowledge that when Ignis returned to his uncle's house, scarred and blinded, he'd be sent off to some special school to learn how to live with his handicap. He might remain on friendly terms with his Noct, but there'd be no question of allowing him to continue serving him.

He was useless to Noct in whatever time he lived, and he didn't know how he was going to live with that.

"Whatever you're thinking, cut it out," Gladio said, and the weight of his oversized hand settled at the center of Ignis' chest, pushing against the rapid panic of his breathing. "Deep breath in, all the way down to your stomach, hold it, fill it up with all the bad stuff and then let it all out." He rubbed slow circles, encouraging Ignis to use that slow, sleepy rhythm to center himself.

Ignis wished he could just breathe out his whole existence, but in lieu of that, he clung even harder to Gladio and Prompto. Gladio would breathe for him and Prompto would feel for him and he could just... fall down into nothingness, and pain, and sleep.

*

Either Gladio or Prompto was always there with him when he woke, after that. He was too tired and despairing to eat for the first few days, but then his appetite came back, and on the heels of that his stubbornness, and then his thirst to know everything.

As soon as Ignis could get out of bed, he made Prompto walk him down to Noct's room, even though being upright made him astoundingly dizzy, like he was on a swing that was careening out of control. Prompto said it was lucky that the bathroom was on the way, otherwise Ignis would have thrown up all over the floor, and he made him lie down in bed with Noct while he got cold damp towels to put on Ignis' forehead and neck.

Ignis used to sneak into Noct's room to sleep with him after the marilith attack, and after Noct came back from Tenebrae. The darkness and the body next to him almost felt familiar. Almost.

The next day he was able to sit up in a chair Gladio had carried over and set next to the bed. Ignis read Noct stories from the Cosmogony – he'd long since memorized the entire book, he hardly needed a physical copy... or eyesight – and tried to reconcile the mythology he knew with the actual gods and goddesses they'd encountered. Deep down, he believed that humans and gods could fundamentally never understand each others' motives or feelings: they were mutually alien. The gods could never and would never understand humanity's best interests.

So... fuck them.

He refrained from sharing that blasphemous bit of editorializing with Noct, but he thought it often, and that anger provided fuel for his recovery.

But the greatest impetus for him to regain his status quo was Noct's deep grief. Gladio might have forgotten, but to Ignis Noct's retreat into himself was agonizingly familiar. His own, younger Noct had been changed irreversibly by the attacks on him that had left people he cared for dead. That had separated him from Luna. That had left his body in a perpetual state of struggling to do what had come so easily before: walking, using magic. He was quieter afterward, angrier, less trusting, closed to everyone including Ignis.

And this time, Ignis couldn't do any of the things he'd tried to make Noct feel better. His attempts at Tenebraean tarts had been sad, but Noct had eaten them anyway, and he'd been amenable to having his wheelchair pushed through the gardens to take in the fresh air, especially when Ignis skipped school to be with him.

_You'll get in trouble_ , Noct would say with envy. He could only rebel vicariously.

Ignis would reply with a shrug and keep on gathering long-stemmed clover to weave into a crown. _I don't care. It hardly matters._ His homeroom teacher told him he was bright enough to get into university if he applied himself, as if that was a thing that was possible. Ignis knew he'd follow Gladio into the Crownsguard, though.

Which was just what had happened; he'd trained and excelled at it, he'd learned strategy, Noct had needed him, and then – he was kicked right back to the start.

He needed to tell Noct about Ardyn. But first he had to prove to Noct that he was fine.

Learning how to live in the dark simply meant acquiring new habits and strategies; blindness needn't interfere with his daily routines all that much. He got a stick for walking, though figuring out how to use it was more difficult than he'd assumed based on what he'd seen on television dramas. Gladio made him a set of raised-dot alphabet cards, but Ignis was dubious about how practical learning to finger-read would be. Most of the books for the blind had probably burned in Insomnia – at any rate, he was unlikely to access Niflheim's famed national libraries any time soon. He got Prompto to set up his phone to give audio commands, which was useful, although their one attempt to play King's Knight was a miserable failure. For the best, he told himself; he had no time to waste on distractions.

He began re-learning his weapons, at first furtively and then with Gladio's grudging assistance, and figuring out how to apply his training to this new disability. The doctor still insisted that he might recover some sight, eventually; she said he should rest and not overexert himself, but Ignis couldn't see the point to gambling with his life that way. He trusted himself and his abilities, but not a vague promise of a brighter future. Futures had to be _earned_.

Weskham came around a lot, ostensibly to lend Ignis a hand during his recovery, as he had experience himself of being gravely injured and left behind, here in Altissia, by King Regis. Ignis was polite and asked him to tell stories about those days with the king, but he recognized this as the prelude to another attempt to separate him from Noct. Just like the time with Cor.

He made sure Noct knew that he'd go after him. He'd be in constant danger, of course, being young and blind and forced to cross an ocean and half a continent alone, but if Noct made the decision to leave him behind he'd have no choice.

"I'll put notes in the armiger to keep you appraised of my progress," he added. "And I suppose you might be able to call me – will our phones work in Niflheim?" He wasn't entirely sure how they managed to work _now_. He suspected Magitek, but rebranded so as to be palatable to Lucian consumers.

"You're really annoying," Noct said with a sigh after the slight pause where he'd elided a nickname. Without the softening effect of a _Specs_ he sounded harsher, but Ignis understood. He was never going to be that person with this Noct. He missed being able to see Noct's face, the fondness in his eyes, the way he could smile with such innocent delight at simple things. Losing his sight put up another barrier between himself and a friendship he'd valued above all else, and he swallowed hard around a sudden lump in his throat. "Hey," Noct said, a step closer. "Hey." And then his hand settled on Ignis' shoulder with the stiffness of someone unused to giving comfort, but Ignis was just as unaccustomed to accepting; in that way they were a pair. "You're coming with us, of course you are." His hand rubbed a small spot of warmth that Ignis tried not to lean into. "Gladio's buying train tickets, and Prompto wants to take you shopping for clothes that fit properly."

Both pairs of Ignis' trousers were badly hemmed up and his shoes had been ruined by seawater, but Ignis resented the way Noct spoke, as if he could be placated by clothes. Perhaps that had been so for the older Ignis. Extensive photographic evidence existed, although Prompto had for the most part stopped sharing pictures of Ignis' previous self.

Still, Ignis thirsted for this closeness to Noct, even though their roles were reversed now, and he wasn't going to let his temper push Noct away. "Okay," he said, and winced at how thin his voice sounded. And then, because he was curious and always preferred to know the bad news: "Do I look bad?" He'd worried about embarrassing Noct with his appearance when they arrived in Altissia, and Ravus and Ardyn had made unkind comments, but in their cases he'd assumed they spoke from a desire to demoralize and threaten him. Not knowing, of course, that he did not back down.

He hadn't been thinking of his scars when he spoke, but Noct's thoughts went there immediately – probably natural, considering that unlike Ignis, he had to look at them.

"No," Noct said, swiftly and using the voice of royal command. His other hand cupped the injured side of Ignis' face. "You wear your loyalty and honor on your face. As you always have." His thumb traced a short arc under Ignis' eye, the ragged seam where burns faded into normal skin. The touch felt _wrong_ , damaged nerves interpreting the pressure as pricks of flame and electricity. As if on command, Ignis felt his eyes flood with tears which soon overflowed in hot rivulets down his cheeks, to his mortification.

He tried to apologize – one did not go crying to the king – but Noct had enveloped him in a tight hug and for some reason Ignis found himself sobbing, as if every loss in his life was raw and new and insurmountable. He was _making a scene_ like a fractious toddler, and he ought to be sent out of the room to compose himself, but instead he got his arms around Noct and found himself unable to do anything but hang on while the maelstrom of emotion possessed him.

At some point, Prompto and Gladio entered the room, which Ignis only realized when their hands and arms joined Noct's. Someone was brushing his hair back, someone else had a handkerchief and was patiently blotting tears from his scars, where the salt burned like an additional humiliation.

Every time Ignis tried to pull back, pull himself back together, Noct said, "It's okay," sounding like he meant it. For some reason, even though he knew this Noct was far removed from the boy Ignis had spent half of his life looking after, Ignis was reminded of him sharply and painfully. Noct had been thoughtless and selfish at times, like all children, but he'd also been sweet and loving and Ignis' best friend, as close as a brother. Ignis loved him wholeheartedly, and he'd never see him again, it seemed. All he had was this adult who'd grown away from him, who didn't want him, not really. Which was no surprise, considering Ignis couldn't stop crying, and was hiccuping with the force of it now.

The arms around him tugged and nudged, guiding him, and he was so disoriented he didn't realize where he was being led until the back of his thighs hit the bed.

"Hop up," Gladio said. Ignis would have refused, but he was lifted up bodily – he _hated_ how big Gladio had grown – and had to slap a hand over his mouth for fear he'd be ill again. He got motion sickness and waves of dizziness that the doctor assured him would pass once he'd adjusted to being blind. He'd been trying to overcome it, because they'd have to leave here by boat and then take the Regalia or the train, and whatever kind assurances Noct made about not leaving him behind would hardly survive the reality of dragging around a perpetually ill child.

Someone removed his shoes, and then Prompto encouraged him to sip water from a glass that he helped Ignis hold to his mouth. Ignis did, and to his dull relief he felt his body relax, the wave of illness receding. Gladio was gentle as he put Ignis down on the bed, and Noct was already there, arms closing around him. Gladio and Prompto fit themselves on the bed somehow – apparently the beds of kings were big enough for four.

He fell asleep like that, feverishly hot from the bodies pressed in around him. In his dreamstate he thought he heard them talking about him, and he wanted to listen, but nothing made sense.

When he woke, he thought for a moment that he was back home in his own time, curled up around his Noct, perhaps after he'd had another bad dream and Ignis had read him to sleep. The feeling of soft hair under his chin was so familiar, the way Noct held on to his wrist to keep him from slipping away. But then he ruined everything by opening his eyes – eye, the left stayed closed – on darkness, and the weight of his new life settled heavy on him.

He worked his way out of Noct's grasp and got out of bed. He couldn't find his shoes, so he went to the bathroom barefoot. His face was sticky and swollen from the previous day's tantrum, and he hoped he could wash away the evidence completely. He combed his hair back, using a bit of Prompto's hair gel to make it stick. Hair brushing against the scars or falling in his eyes made him startle, skin crawling, even though he supposed he should be using it to hide the scars. The doctor had said his irises were scarred as well, not green at all any more, but he couldn't picture that. He supposed that if he did make it home to his Noct and his uncle, they wouldn't recognize him. (Or want him, either; there was no place in the Crownsguard for the physically unfit.)

He had to move forward, that was all there was to it.

Stepping into the corridor, he cocked his head but didn't hear any movement from Noct's bedroom, so he made his way to the common room, where Gladio and Prompto were eating and having another one of those discussions with undercurrents, like they were actually arguing but with unraised voices.

"Did you know he's eligible for a discounted fare?" Gladio said, voice muffled by something crunchy, toast perhaps. "Student rate."

"He'd appreciate you saving money." Prompto took a gulp of his drink. Ignis couldn't smell coffee, because there was none; probably it was water, or tea. He knew how selfish it'd be to complain, when the city had been leveled. When they'd all been responsible for bringing down the wrath of the Astrals.

"He's gone," Gladio said, voice gutted and angry. "He's gone and not coming back, ten years wiped off the slate like nothing. And I made myself believe it was just a fixable glitch in the universe so well that I let him get fucked up – fucked over – on my watch."

"Ravus' watch," Prompto corrected. "Iggy'd be the first to kick your ass if you put his safety over your duty to Noct."

Gladio sighed, frustrated, like Prompto was missing an obvious point. "I can't gripe about Ravus being an asshole when I'm just as bad. Where the hell was I when a thirteen year old kid was all that stood between Noct and Ardyn?"

"Don't make me have to pardon you again before breakfast," Noct said. He was standing right behind Ignis, who jumped with surprise – he hadn't realized Noct was there – heart hammering against his ribs. Instinct made him twist away to the side, hard enough that his shoulder hit the wall. Noct caught him with a swift apology, which Ignis assured him, breathless with shock, was unnecessary.

"We have toast," Prompto said, his attempt to cover over the awkwardness so baldly transparent that Ignis nearly smiled.

"Cold and overcooked again?" Noct asked. He took a step forward, giving Ignis an encouraging nudge to get him walking. Four steps in and Noct's fingers on his shoulder tightened in warning. "Chair's to your left," he said. He always sounded like he thought Ignis would take affront at being given directions, which made Ignis feel even more embarrassed by how clumsy he was.

He reached out his hand, found nothing, and took another step forward, relieved when his fingers brushed against wood. No one was speaking, and he hoped they weren't all looking at him; or worse, looking pointedly away, pretending they didn't see him grope for the seat and then, once seated, locate the table.

"Basically a giant crouton with no salad," Prompto said belatedly into the painful silence, and set a plate down in front of where Ignis' fingertips rested, on the edge of the table. "And let me get you a cup of herbal stuff. Supposed to be good for... something. Here."

_Eyesight_ , Ignis assumed, reaching out toward Prompto and closing his fingers around the mug he was handed. He hoped its medicinal properties worked, because the first sip he took was vile. Not something he'd choose to drink for fun.

"I'm going out," Gladio said, pushing back from the table and standing. "Weskham's asked for help with relief projects." He headed for the door, but then his footsteps slowed. Ignis didn't hear him turn around, but he said, "Look, Iggy. Far as I'm concerned you've more than proved you deserve to be at Noct's side. But it's not like we always get what we deserve, is it?"

"I'm training," Ignis reminded him, putting his mug down and turning toward Gladio. "I'll be – " He wanted to make a reassuring promise, that he'd be as good as before or as good as his older self, or better, even; but how would that not sound like hubris at best, a boldfaced lie at worst? Gladio knew the truth. He could vow to try and stay out of the way, but that would be humiliating. "I need to be able to fight," he amended weakly.

"Ask Noct," Gladio said, and Ignis heard another undercurrent, some unspoken communication between Gladio and Noct he wasn't privy to.

"Enough," Noct said, only he wasn't using his regular voice; he was speaking as king, ordering Glaido to stand down, and Ignis held on to the edge of the table, terribly unsure of what was happening.

After a moment, Gladio said, "Your Majesty," and then continued on his way out.

"Zip it," Noct told Prompto wearily, before he even said anything. Prompto replied with toast and tea and a pathetic segue about the weather. Noct seemed grateful for it, though, making little noises as if he was paying attention as Prompto talked about how it might get cloudy later, but probably wouldn't rain, even though there was a front moving in, but who knew, really, with the seasonal prevailing winds.

Ignis' toast was so dry it was nearly inedible. He had to wash each mouthful down with tea, and Prompto seemed pleased to keep refilling his cup. Who knew – perhaps his eyesight would be restored, even partially, due to whatever magic was in the herbs. Even though not even Noct's potions had worked so far.

Ignis' day after that was busy. Prompto did take him out shopping, although the point of the excursion was less about clothing than learning to use the walking stick to avoid obstacles and make his way around. Ignis found he could concentrate either on his mental map of where they were heading or on not stumbling over things and falling; both was beyond his current abilities.

"Give it time," Prompto said, putting his arm around Ignis' shoulders. "You've made a lot of progress in a week."

For the first time in a long time, ugly thoughts about how Prompto was an outsider and didn't understand boiled up, and Ignis bit his lip to keep from saying something deliberately cruel. His teeth caught on the stitches where his lip had been sliced through, and it hurt, but he didn't stop.

Prompto did, though, and he used his hold to pull Ignis to a halt, running his finger over his mouth and saying, "Hey, stop that." He sounded like Ignis was distressing him, even though that hadn't been his intent. "You're bleeding."

Ignis flicked his tongue out to check. It wasn't that bad; he hadn't pulled any of the stitches loose.

"Ardyn is... bad news," Prompto said abruptly, like he'd been holding the words back but his restraint had broken. "He pretends to be our ally, and lies about who he is and what his motives are, and he's _powerful_. The Emperor is totally dancing to his tune, like a puppet on strings, because Ardyn's long game started decades ago, turning Niflheim into this daemon magitek war machine. He wants something – not the crystal, not the ring. Noct, maybe." He shrugged, the motion carrying through the arm he had around Ignis' shoulders. "If you think older you would have stood a better chance fighting him, you're wrong. Older you would probably be dead right now. Ardyn let you live because he thought you were _amusing_ , this little kid with the balls to use the ring against him – which means, hey, you beat him at his own game."

"He wanted me to fight. He said," Ignis blurted out, unable to keep the secret longer, "he'd make Noct younger, too, and – _I'm_ fine, but – I don't want _my_ Noct here, he's too little and he's been hurt so much, he needs – so that's why. Ardyn knows the strings to pull for me, too."

"What an utter asshole," Prompto said, without hesitation. "Fuck him." He gave Ignis a squeeze. "If there's one thing I've learned since leaving home, it's that fate and gods and destiny really do exist, but they all suck, and the best thing we can do is just be as human as possible in the face of whatever cosmic game the Astrals are playing. Mad props to Noct for being so real, you know?"

"Gladio wants Noct to use the ring, doesn't he."

"Gladio's going through a lot of personal shit right now. But well... I figure Noct's dad must've taught him about the ring, how to use it, _when_ to use it. Noct's the closest thing to an expert we have. Then you. Then Gladio and me."

"All the dead kings are in there." Ignis never, ever wanted to face them down again. "They're assholes, too," he confided.

Prompto snorted. "Figures. And watch your language, or you'll get me in trouble." He pulled Ignis into a side-long hug, warm and comforting until a moment later when Ignis' libido kicked in, exquisitely sensitive to the press of Prompto's wiry-muscled arm as he breathed in his sun-baked clean masculine scent. Ignis squirmed with the shameful urge to run his hands – his mouth – all over Prompto. Prompto laughed and let him go, then added in surprise, "When'd you get to be nearly as tall as me? Are you _growing_?"

Ignis shrugged; he had no idea, but he knew from pictures how tall he'd be eventually. He'd liked knowing that, before; a superstitious part of him found it unnatural and disturbing to be smaller than Noct. He was older and the protector, a responsible role model who shouldn't be standing on the cracked pavement of a city whose ruin he'd helped bring about and thinking about sex. Noct was in danger, he told himself fiercely, and he made himself think about how disappointed King Regis would be to see him so distracted.

That strategy mostly worked, except then he recalled feeling the King's presence in the ring and begging him for the strength to hold Ardyn off. King Regis had been a silent specter while the other Lucii raged against Ignis' temerity, and he'd allowed... what happened... to happen.

A weight like a stone settled hard and familiar in Ignis' stomach, and he wanted to reach for Prompto to make it go away again, but of course he neither could nor should. He set the tip of the walking stick back on the unseen road ahead of him and resented its necessity, even as he took a step forward. He could still feel Prompto at his side, but at least now he wouldn't be trying on new trousers with his dick hard. Small victory, but he'd take it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a failed attempt to write a fic for hc-bingo's February Mini-Challenge. I had four prompts - de-aged, fever/delirium, archaic medical treatment, and a wild card. The fic not only missed the deadline by a month, but also does not contain archaic medical treatment, so: did not pass go, did not get $200. For the wild card, though, it has: cuddling, hugs, homesickness, grief, learning to be loved, loss of home/shelter, loss of identity, loss of vision (canon), sacrifice, taking care of somebody, trust issues, and washing/bathing someone.


End file.
